soft
heads of steel
mascara
running through fields
they might be ripe
might be sweet
could turn their heads
three hundred
and sixty degrees
see them
whirl around
tender
they tear
through house and mind
a million walls lay still
left to decide
what exactly
did they leave behind
they are cherry
cherry
bombs rest
wrapped in towel and comb
detectives kneel
ears to the ground
they might be ripe
might be sweet
could turn their heads
three hundred
and sixty degrees
see them
they are cherry
cherry